against the yellow wall. And then the carriage stopped at a house on theleft-hand side, and Garratt Skinner got out.

"Here we are," he said.

It was a small square house of the Georgian days, built of old brick,duskily red. You entered it at the side and the big level windows of theliving rooms looked out upon a wide and high-walled garden whence alittle door under a brick archway in the wall gave a second entrance onto the road. Into this garden Sylvia wandered. If she had met with butfew people who matched the delicate company of her dreams, here, at allevents, was a mansion where that company might have fitly gathered. Greatelms and beeches bent under their load of leaves to the lawn; about thelawn, flowers made a wealth of color, and away to the right of the housetwisted stems and branches, where the green of the apples was turning tored, stood evenly spaced in a great orchard. And the mill streamtunneling under the road and the wall ran swiftly between green banksthrough the garden and the orchard, singing as it ran. There lingered,she thought, an ancient grace about this old garden, some flavor offorgotten days, as in a room scented with potpourri; and she walked thelawn in a great contentment.

The house within charmed her no less. It was a place of many corners andquaint nooks, and of a flooring so unlevel that she could hardly passfrom one room to another without taking a step up or a step down. Sylviawent about the house quietly and with a certain thoughtfulness. Here shehad been born and a mystery of her life was becoming clear to her. Onthis summer evening the windows were set wide in every room, and thus inevery room, as she passed up and down, she heard the liquid music ofrunning water, here faint, like a whispered melody, there pleasant, likelaughter, but nowhere very loud, and everywhere quite audible. In one ofthese rooms she had been born. In one of these rooms her mother had sleptat nights during the weeks before she was born, with that music in herears at the moment of sleep and at the moment of her waking. Sylviaunderstood now why she had always dreamed of running water. She wonderedin which room she had been born. She tried to remember some corner of thehouse, some nook in its high-walled garden; and that she could not awokein her a strange and almost eery feeling. She had come back to a house inwhich she had lived, to a scene on which her eyes had looked, to soundswhich had murmured in her ears, and everything was as utterly new to herand unimagined as though now for the first time she had crossed thethreshold. Yet these very surroundings to which her memory bore notestimony had assuredly modified her life, had given to her a particularpossession, this dream of running water, and had made it a veritableelement of her nature. She could not but reflect upon this new knowledge,and as she walked the garden in the darkness of the evening, she builtupon it, as will be seen.

As she stepped back over the threshold into the library where her fathersat, she saw that he was holding a telegram in his hand.

"Wallie Hine comes to-morrow, my dear," he said.

Sylvia looked at her father wistfully.

"It is a pity," she said, "a great pity. It would have been pleasant ifwe could have been alone."

The warmth of her gladness had gone from her; she walked once more inshadows; there was in her voice a piteous appeal for affection, for love,of which she had had too little in her life and for which she greatlycraved. She stood by the door, her lips trembling and her dark eyes for awonder glistening with tears. She had always, even to those who knew herto be a woman, something of the child in her appearance, which made aplea from her lips most difficult to refuse. Now she seemed a child onwhom the world pressed heavily before her time for suffering had come;she had so motherless a look. Even Garratt Skinner moved uncomfortably inhis chair; even that iron man was stirred.

"I, too, am sorry, Sylvia," he said, gently; "but we will make the bestof it. Between us"--and he laughed gaily, setting aside from him hismomentary compassion--"we will teach poor Wallie Hine a little geography,won't we?"

Sylvia had no smile ready for a reply. But she bowed her head, and intoher face and her very attitude there came an expression of patience. Sheturned and opened the door, and as she opened it, and stood with her backtoward her father, she said in a quiet and clear voice, "Very well," andso passed up the stairs to her room.

It might, after all, merely be kindness in her father which had led himto insist on Wallie Hine's visit. So she argued, and the morepersistently because she felt that the argument was thin. He could bekind. He had been thoughtful for her during the past week in the smallattentions which appeal so much to women. Because he saw that she lovedflowers, he had engaged a new gardener for their stay; and he had shown,in one particular instance, a quite surprising thoughtfulness for a classof unhappy men with whom he could have had no concern, the convicts inPortland prison. That instance remained for a long time vividly in hermind, and at a later time she spoke of it with consequences of afar-reaching kind. She thought then, as she thought now, only of thekindness of her father's action, and for the first week of Hine's visitthat thought remained with her. She was on the alert, but nothingoccurred to arouse in her a suspicion. There were no cards, little winewas drunk, and early hours were kept by the whole household. Indeed,Garratt Skinner left entirely to his daughter the task of entertaininghis guest; and although once he led them both over the great down toDorchester and back, at a pace which tired his companions out, hepreferred, for the most part, to smoke his pipe in a hammock in thegarden with a novel at his side. The morning after that one expedition,he limped out into the garden, rubbing the muscles of his thigh.

"You must look after Wallie, my dear," he said. "Age is beginning to findme out. And after all, he will learn more of the tact and manners whichhe wants from you than from a rough man like me," and it did not occur toSylvia, who was of a natural modesty of thought, that he had any otherintention of throwing them thus together than to rid himself of a guestwith whom he had little in common.

But a week later she changed her mind. She was driving Walter Hineone morning into Weymouth, and as the dog-cart turned into the roadbeside the bay, and she saw suddenly before her the sea sparkling inthe sunlight, the dark battle-ships at their firing practice, andover against her, through a shimmering haze of heat, the crouchingmass of Portland, she drew in a breath of pleasure. It seemed to herthat her companion gave the same sign of enjoyment, and she turned tohim with some surprise. But Walter Hine was looking to the widebeach, so black with holiday makers that it seemed at that distance agreat and busy ant-heap.

"That's what I like," he said, with a chuckle of anticipation. "Lot's o'people. I've knocked about too long in the thick o' things, you see, MissSylvia, kept it up--I have--seen it right through every night till threeo'clock in the morning, for months at a time. Oh, that's the real thing!"he broke off. "It makes you feel good."

Sylvia laughed.

"Then if you dislike the country," she said, and perhaps rather eagerly,"why did you come to stay with us at all?"

And suddenly Hine leered at her.

"Oh, you know!" he said, and almost he nudged her with his elbow. "Iwouldn't have come, of course, if old Garratt hadn't particularly toldme that you were agreeable." Sylvia grew hot with shame. She drewaway, flicked the horse with her whip and drove on. Had she been used,she wondered, to lure this poor helpless youth to the sequesteredvillage where they stayed?--and a chill struck through her even onthat day of July. The plot had been carefully laid if that were so;she was to be hoodwinked no less than Wallie Hine. What sinister thingwas then intended?

She tried to shake off the dread which encompassed her, pleading toherself that she saw perils in shadows like the merest child. Butshe had not yet shaken it off when Walter Hine cried out excitedlyto her to stop.

"Look!" he said, and he pointed toward an hotel upon the sea-front whichat that moment they were passing.

Sylvia looked, and saw obsequiously smirking upon the steps of the hotel,with his hat lifted from his shiny head, her old enemy, Captain Barstow.Fortunately she had not stopped. She drove quickly on, just acknowledginghis salute. It needed but this meeting to confirm her fears. It was notcoincidence which had brought Captain Barstow on their heels to Weymouth.He had come with knowledge and a definite purpose.

"Oh, I say," protested Wallie Hine, "you might have stopped, Miss Sylvia,and let me pass the time of day with old Barstow."

"But you must leave me, Mr. Hine," she said, looking at him with seriouseyes, "if you want to pass the time of day with your 'red-hot' friend."

There was no hint of a smile about her lips. She waited for his answer.It came accompanied with a smile which aimed at gallantry and wasmerely familiar.

"Of course I stay where I am. What do _you_ think?"

Sylvia hurried over her shopping and drove homeward. She went at once toher father, who lay in the hammock in the shade of the trees, reading abook. She came up from behind him across the grass, and he was not awareof her approach until she spoke.

"Father!" she said, and he started up.

"Oh, Sylvia!" he said, and just for a second there was a palpableuneasiness in his manner. He had not merely started. He seemed also toher to have been startled. But he recovered his composure.

"You see, my dear, I have been thinking of you," he said, and he pointedto a man at work among the flower-beds. "I saw how you loved flowers,how you liked to have the rooms bright with them. So I hired a newgardener as a help. It is a great extravagance, Sylvia, but you are toblame, not I."

He smiled, confident of her gratitude, and had it been but yesterday hewould have had it offered to him in full measure. To-day, however, allher thoughts were poisoned by suspicion. She knew it and was distressed.She knew how much happiness so simple a forethought would naturally havebrought to her. She did not indeed suspect any new peril in her father'saction. She barely looked toward the new gardener, and certainlyneglected to note whether he worked skilfully or no. But the fears of themorning modified her thanks. Moreover the momentary uneasiness of herfather had not escaped her notice and she was wondering upon its cause.

Though her eyes were on his face, and perhaps because her eyes wereresting there with so quiet a watchfulness, she could detect noself-betrayal now. Garratt Skinner stared at her in pure astonishment.Then the astonishment gave place to annoyance.

"Barstow!" he said angrily. He lay back in the hammock, looking up to theboughs overhead, his face wrinkled and perplexed. "He has found us outand followed us, Sylvia. I would not have had it happen for worlds. Didhe see you?"

"Yes."

"And I thought that here, at all events, we were safe from him. I wonderhow he found us out! Bribed the caretaker in Hobart Place, I suppose."

Sylvia did not accept this suggestion. She sat down upon a chair in adisconcerting silence, and waited. Garratt Skinner crossed his armsbehind his head and deliberated.

"Barstow's a deep fellow, Sylvia," he said. "I am afraid of him."

He was looking up to the boughs overhead, but he suddenly glanced towardher and then quietly removed one of his hands and slipped it down to thebook which was lying on his lap. Sylvia took quiet note of the movement.The book had been lying shut upon his lap, with its back toward her.Garratt Skinner did not alter its position; but she saw that his hand nowhid from her the title on the back. It was a big, and had the appearanceof an expensive, book. She noticed the binding--green cloth boards andgold lettering on the back. She was not familiar with the look of it, andit seemed to her that she might as well know--and as quickly aspossible--what the book was and the subject with which it dealt.

Meanwhile Garratt Skinner repeated:

"A deep fellow--Captain Barstow," and anxiously Garratt Skinner debatedhow to cope with that deep fellow. He came at last to his conclusion.

"We can't shut our doors to him, Sylvia."

Even though she had half expected just that answer, Sylvia flinched asshe heard it uttered.

"I understand your feelings, my dear," he continued in tones ofcommiseration, "for they are mine. But we must fight the Barstows withthe Barstows' weapons. It would never do for us to close our doors. Hehas far too tight a hold of Wallie Hine as yet. He has only to drop ahint to Wallie that we are trying to separate him from his true friendsand keep him to ourselves--and just think, my dear, what a horrible setof motives a mean-minded creature like Barstow could impute to us! Let usbe candid, you and I," cried Garratt Skinner, starting up, as thoughcarried away by candor. "Here am I, a poor man--here are you, mydaughter, a girl with the charm and the beauty of the spring, and here'sWallie Hine, rich, weak, and susceptible. Oh, there's a story for aBarstow to embroider! But, Sylvia, he shall not so much as hint at thestory. For your sake, my dear, for your sake," cried Garratt Skinner,with all the emphasis of a loving father. He wiped his forehead with hishandkerchief.

"I was carried away by my argument," he went on in a calmer voice. Sylviafor her part had not been carried away at all, and no doubt her watchfulcomposure helped him to subdue as ineffective the ardor of his tones."Barstow has only to drop this hint to Wallie Hine, and Wallie will beoff like a rabbit at the sound of a gun. And there's our chance gone ofhelping him to a better life. No, we must welcome Barstow, if he comeshere. Yes, actually welcome him, however repugnant it may be to ourfeelings. That's what we must do, Sylvia. He must have no suspicion thatwe are working against him. We must lull him to sleep. That is our onlyway to keep Wallie Hine with us. So that, Sylvia, must be our plan ofcampaign."

The luncheon bell rang as he ended his oration. He got out of the hammockquickly, as if to prevent discussion of his plan; and the book which hewas carrying caught in the netting of the hammock and fell to the ground.Sylvia could read the title now. She did read it, hastily, as GarrattSkinner stooped to pick it up. It was entitled "The Alps in 1864."

She knew the book by repute and was surprised to find it in her father'shands. She was surprised still more that he should have been at so muchpains to conceal the title from her notice. After all, what could itmatter? she wondered.

Sylvia lay deep in misery that night. Her father had failed her utterly.All the high hopes with which she had set out from Chamonix had fallen,all the rare qualities with which her dreams had clothed him as inshining raiment must now be stripped from him. She was not deceived.Parminter, Barstow, Garratt Skinner--there was one "deep fellow" in thattrio, but it was neither Barstow nor Parminter. It was her father. Shehad but to set the three faces side by side in her thoughts, to rememberthe differences of manner, mind and character. Garratt Skinner was themaster in the conspiracy, the other two his mere servants. It was he whoto some dark end had brought Barstow down from London. He loomed up inher thoughts as a relentless and sinister figure, unswayed by affection,yet with the power to counterfeit it, long-sighted for evil, sparing noone--not even his daughter. She recalled their first meeting in thelittle house in Hobart Place, she remembered the thoughtful voice withwhich, as he had looked her over, he had agreed that she might be"useful." She thought of his caresses, his smile of affection, hiscomradeship, and she shuddered. Walter Hine's words had informed herto-day to what use her father had designed her. She was his decoy.

She lay upon her bed with her hands clenched, repeating the word inhorror. His decoy! The moonlight poured through the open window, themusic of the stream filled the room. She was in the house in which shehad been born, a place mystically sacred to her thoughts; and she hadcome to it to learn that she was her father's decoy in a vulgarconspiracy to strip a weakling of his money. The stream sang beneath herwindows, the very stream of which the echo had ever been rippling throughher dreams. Always she had thought that it must have some particularmeaning for her which would be revealed in due time. She dwelt bitterlyupon her folly. There was no meaning in its light laughter.

In a while she was aware of a change. There came a grayness in the room.The moonlight had lost its white brilliance, the night was waning. Sylviarose from her bed, and slowly like one very tired she began to gathertogether and pack into a bag such few clothes as she could carry. She hadmade up her mind to go, and to go silently before the house waked.Whither she was to go, and what she was to do once she had gone, shecould not think. She asked herself the questions in vain, feeling verylonely and very helpless as she moved softly about the room by the lightof her candle. Her friend might write to her and she would not receivehis letter. Still she must go. Once or twice she stopped her work, andcrouching down upon the bed allowed her tears to have their way. When shehad finished her preparations she blew out her candle, and leaning uponthe sill of the open window, gave her face to the cool night air.

There was a break in the eastern sky; already here and there a blackbirdsang in the garden boughs, and the freshness, the quietude, swept herthoughts back to the Chalet de Lognan. With a great yearning she recalledthat evening and the story of the great friendship so quietly related toher in the darkness, beneath the stars. The world and the people of herdreams existed; only there was no door of entrance into that world forher. Below her the stream sang, even as the glacier stream had sung,though without its deep note of thunder. As she listened to it, certainwords spoken upon that evening came back to her mind and gradually beganto take on a particular application.

"What you know, that you must do, if by doing it you can save a life orsave a soul."

That was the law. "If you can save a life or save a soul." And she _did_know. Sylvia raised herself from the window and stood in thought.

Garratt Skinner had made a great mistake that day. He had been misled bythe gentleness of her ways, the sweet aspect of her face, and by a lookof aloofness in her eyes, as though she lived in dreams. He had seensurely that she was innocent, and since he believed that knowledge mustneeds corrupt, he thought her ignorant as well. But she was not ignorant.She had detected his trickeries. She knew of the conspiracy, she knew ofthe place she filled in it herself; and furthermore she knew that as adecoy she had been doing her work. Only yesterday, Walter Hine had beenforced to choose between Barstow and herself and he had let Barstow go.It was a small matter, no doubt. Still there was promise in it. What ifshe stayed, strengthened her hold on Walter Hine and grappled with thethree who were ranged against him?

Walter Hine was, of course, and could be, nothing to her. He was the merepuppet, the opportunity of obedience to the law. It was of the law thatshe was thinking--and of the voice of the man who had uttered it. Sheknew--by using her knowledge, she could save a soul. She did not think atthis time that she might be saving a life too.

Quietly she undressed and slipped into her bed. She was comforted. Asmile had come upon her lips. She saw the face of her friend in thedarkness, very near to her. She needed sleep to equip herself for thefight, and while thinking so she slept. The moonlight faded altogether,and left the room dark. Beneath the window the stream went singingthrough the lawn. After all, its message had been revealed to her in itsdue season.

He took the gun from a corner where it stood against the wall, opened thebreech, shut it again, and turning to the open window lifted the stock tohis shoulder.

"I wonder whether I could hit anything nowadays," he said, taking carefulaim at a tulip in the garden. "Any cartridges, Skinner?"

"I don't know, I am sure," Garratt Skinner replied, testily. Thenewspapers had only this moment been brought into the room, and he didnot wish to be disturbed. Sylvia had never noticed that double-barreledgun before; and she wondered whether it had been brought into the roomthat morning. She watched Captain Barstow bustle into the hall and backagain. Finally he pounced upon an oblong card-box which lay on the top ofa low book-case. He removed the lid and pulled out a cartridge.

"Hullo!" said he. "No. 6. The very thing! I am going to take a pot at thestarlings, Skinner. There are too many of them about for yourfruit-trees."

"Very well," said Garratt Skinner, lazily lifting his eyes from hisnewspaper and looking out across the lawn. "Only take care you don't wingmy new gardener."

"No fear of that," said Barstow, and filling his pockets with cartridgeshe took the gun in his hand and skipped out into the garden. In a momenta shot was heard, and Walter Hine rose from his chair and walked to thewindow. A second shot followed.

"Old Barstow can't shoot for nuts," said Hine, with a chuckle, and in histurn he stepped out into the garden. Sylvia made no attempt to hinderhim, but she took his place at the window ready to intervene. A flight ofstarlings passed straight and swift over Barstow's head. He fired bothbarrels and not one of the birds fell. Hine spoke to him, and the gun atonce changed hands. At the next flight Hine fired and one of the birdsdropped. Barstow's voice was raised in jovial applause.

"That was a good egg, Wallie. A very good egg. Let me try now!" and soalternately they shot as the birds darted overhead across the lawn.Sylvia waited for the moment when Barstow's aim would suddenly develop adeadly precision, but that moment did not come. If there was any bettingupon this match, Hine would not be the loser. She went quietly back to awriting-desk and wrote her letters. She had no wish to rouse in herfather's mind a suspicion that she had guessed his design and wassetting herself to thwart it. She must work secretly, more secretly thanhe did himself. Meanwhile the firing continued in the garden; andunobserved by Sylvia, Garratt Skinner began to take in it a stealthyinterest. His chair was so placed that, without stirring, he could lookinto the garden and at the same time keep an eye on Sylvia; if she movedan elbow or raised her head, Garratt Skinner was at once reading hispaper with every appearance of concentration. On the other hand, herback was turned toward him, so that she saw neither his keen gaze intothe garden nor the good-tempered smile of amusement with which he turnedhis eyes upon his daughter.

In this way perhaps an hour passed; certainly no more. Sylvia had, infact, almost come to the end of her letters, when Garratt Skinnersuddenly pushed back his chair and stood up. At the noise, abrupt as astartled cry, Sylvia turned swiftly round. She saw that her father wasgazing with a look of perplexity into the garden, and that for the momenthe had forgotten her presence. She crossed the room quickly andnoiselessly, and standing just behind his elbow, saw what he saw. Theblood flushed her throat and mounted into her cheeks, her eyes softened,and a smile of welcome transfigured her grave face. Her friend HilaryChayne was standing under the archway of the garden door. He had closedthe door behind him, but he had not moved thereafter, and he was notlooking toward the house. His attention was riveted upon theshooting-match. Sylvia gave no thought to his attitude at the moment. Hehad come--that was enough. And Garratt Skinner, turning about, saw thelight in his daughter's face.

"You know him!" he cried, roughly.

"Yes."

"He has come to see you?"

"Yes."

"You should have told me," said Garratt Skinner, angrily. "I dislikesecrecies." Sylvia raised her eyes and looked her father steadily in theface. But Garratt Skinner was not so easily abashed. He returned her lookas steadily.

"Who is he?" he continued, in a voice of authority.

"Captain Hilary Chayne."

It seemed for a moment that the name was vaguely familiar to GarrattSkinner, and Sylvia added:

"I met him this summer in Switzerland."

"Oh, I see," said her father, and he looked with a new interest acrossthe garden to the door. "He is a great friend."

"My only friend," returned Sylvia, softly; and her father stepped forwardand called aloud, holding up his hand:

"Barstow! Barstow!"

Sylvia noticed then, and not till then, that the coming of her friendwas not the only change which had taken place since she had last lookedout upon the garden. The new gardener was now shooting alternately withWalter Hine, while Captain Barstow, standing a few feet behind them,recorded the hits in a little book. He looked up at the sound ofGarratt Skinner's voice and perceiving Chayne at once put a stop to thematch. Garratt Skinner turned again to his daughter, and spoke nowwithout any anger at all. There was just a hint of reproach in hisvoice, but as though to lessen the reproof he laid his handaffectionately upon her arm.

"Any friend of yours is welcome, of course, my dear. But you might havetold me that you expected him. Let us have no secrets from each otherin the future? Now bring him in, and we will see if we can give him acup of tea."

He rang the bell. Sylvia did not think it worth while to argue thatChayne's coming was a surprise to her as much as to her father. Shecrossed the garden toward her friend. But she walked slowly and stillmore slowly. Her memories had flown back to the evening when they hadbidden each other good-by on the little platform in front of the Chaletde Lognan. Not in this way had she then planned that they should meetagain, nor in such company. The smile had faded from her lips, the lightof gladness had gone from her eyes. Barstow and Walter Hine were movingtoward the house. It mortified her exceedingly that her friend shouldfind her amongst such companions. She almost wished that he had not foundher out at all. And so she welcomed him with a great restraint.

"It was kind of you to come," she said. "How did you know I was here?"

"I called at your house in London. The caretaker gave me the address," hereplied. He took her hand and, holding it, looked with the carefulscrutiny of a lover into her face.

"You have needed those memories of your one day to fall back upon," hesaid, regretfully. "Already you have needed them. I am very sorry."

Sylvia did not deny the implication of the words that "troubles" hadcome. She turned to him, grateful that he should so clearly haveremembered what she had said upon that day.

"Thank you," she answered, gently. "My father would like to know you. Iwrote to you that I had come to live with him."

"Yes."

"You were surprised?" she asked.

"No," he answered, quietly. "You came to some important decision on thevery top of the Aiguille d'Argentiere. That I knew at the time, for Iwatched you. When I got your letter, I understood what the decision was."

To leave Chamonix--to break completely with her life--it was just to thatdecision she would naturally have come just on that spot during that onesunlit hour. So much his own love of the mountains taught him. But Sylviawas surprised at his insight; and what with that and the proof that theirday together had remained vividly in his thoughts, she caught backsomething of his comradeship. As they crossed the lawn to the house herembarrassment diminished. She drew comfort, besides, from the thoughtthat whatever her friend might think of Captain Barstow and Walter Hine,her father at all events would impress him, even as she had beenimpressed. Chayne would see at once that here was a man head andshoulders above his companions, finer in quality, different in speech.

But that afternoon her humiliation was to be complete. Her father had nofancy for the intrusion of Captain Chayne into his quiet and sequesteredhouse. The flush of color on his daughter's face, the leap of light intoher eyes, had warned him. He had no wish to lose his daughter. Chayne,too, might be inconveniently watchful. Garratt Skinner desired no spyupon his little plans. Consequently he set himself to play the host withan offensive geniality which was calculated to disgust a man with anytaste for good manners. He spoke in a voice which Sylvia did not know, socoarse it was in quality, so boisterous and effusive; and he paradedWalter Hine and Captain Barstow with the pride of a man exhibiting hisdearest friends.

"You must know 'red-hot' Barstow, Captain Chayne," he cried, slapping thelittle man lustily on the back. "One of the very best. You are bothbrethren of the sword."

Barstow sniggered obsequiously and screwed his eye-glass into his eye.

"Delighted, I am sure. But I sheathed the sword some time ago,Captain Chayne."

"And exchanged it for the betting book," Chayne added, quietly.

Barstow laughed nervously.

"Oh, you refer to our little match in the garden," he said. "We draggedthe gardener into it."

"So I saw," Chayne replied. "The gardener seemed to be a remarkable shot.I think he would be a match for more than one professional."

And turning away he saw Sylvia's eyes fixed upon him, and on her face anexpression of trouble and dismay so deep that he could have bitten offhis tongue for speaking. She had been behind him while he had spoken; andthough he had spoken in a low voice, she had heard every word. She benther head over the tea-table and busied herself with the cups. But herhands shook; her face burned, she was tortured with shame. She had setherself to do battle with her father, and already in the first skirmishshe had been defeated. Chayne's indiscreet words had laid bare to her theelaborate conspiracy. The new gardener, the gun in the corner, thecartridges which had to be looked for, Barstow's want of skill, Hine'ssuperiority which had led Barstow so naturally to offer to back thegardener against him--all was clear to her. It was the little round gameof cards all over again; and she had not possessed the wit to detect thetrick! And that was not all. Her friend had witnessed it and understood!

She heard her father presenting Walter Hine, and with almost intolerablepain she realized that had he wished to leave Chayne no singleopportunity of misapprehension, he would have spoken just these words andno others.

"Wallie is the grandson--and indeed the heir--of old Joseph Hine. Youknow his name, no doubt. Joseph Hine's Chateau Marlay, what? A warm man,Joseph Hine. I don't know a man more rich. Treats his grandson handsomelyinto the bargain, eh, Wallie?"

Sylvia felt that her heart would break. That Garrett Skinner's admissionwas boldly and cunningly deliberate did not occur to her. She simplyunderstood that here was the last necessary piece of evidence given toCaptain Chayne which would convince him that he had been this afternoonthe witness of a robbery and swindle.

She became aware that Chayne was standing beside her. She did not lifther face, for she feared that it would betray her. She wished with allher heart that he would just replace his cup upon the tray and go awaywithout a word. He could not want to stay; he could not want to return.He had no place here. If he would go away quietly, without troubling totake leave of her, she would be very grateful and do justice to him forhis kindness.

But though he had the mind to go, it was not without a word.

"I want you to walk with me as far as the door," he said, gently.

Sylvia rose at once. Since after all there must be words, the sooner theywere spoken the better. She followed him into the garden, making herlittle prayer that they might be very few, and that he would leave her tofight her battle and to hide her shame alone.

They crossed the lawn without a word. He held open the garden door forher and she passed into the lane. He followed and closed the door behindthem. In the lane a hired landau was waiting. Chayne pointed to it.

"I want you to come away with me now," he said, and since she looked athim with the air of one who does not understand, he explained, standingquietly beside her with his eyes upon her face. And though he spokequietly, there was in his eyes a hunger which belied his tones, andthough he stood quietly, there was a tension in his attitude whichbetrayed extreme suspense. "I want you to come away with me, I want younever to return. I want you to marry me."

The blood rushed into her cheeks and again fled from them, leaving hervery white. Her face grew mutinous like an angry child's, but her eyesgrew hard like a resentful woman's.

"You ask me out of pity," she said, in a low voice.

"That's not true," he cried, and with so earnest a passion that she couldnot but believe him. "Sylvia, I came here meaning to ask you to marry me.I ask you something more now, that is all. I ask you to come to me alittle sooner--that is all. I want you to come with me now."

Sylvia leaned against the wall and covered her face with her hands.

"Please!" he said, making his appeal with a great simplicity. "For I loveyou, Sylvia."

She gave him no answer. She kept her face still hid, and only her heavingbreast bore witness to her stress of feeling. Gently he removed herhands, and holding them in his, urged his plea.

"Ever since that day in Switzerland, I have been thinking of you, Sylvia,remembering your looks, your smile, and the words you spoke. I crossedthe Col Dolent the next day, and all the time I felt that there was somegreat thing wanting. I said to myself, 'I miss my friend.' I was wrong,Sylvia. I missed you. Something ached in me--has ached ever since. It wasmy heart! Come with me now!"

Sylvia had not looked at him, though she made no effort to draw her handsaway, and still not looking at him, she answered in a whisper:

"I can't, I can't."

"Why?" he asked, "why? You are not happy here. You are no happier thanyou were at Chamonix. And I would try so very hard to make you happy. Ican't leave you here--lonely, for you are lonely. I am lonely too; allthe more lonely because I carry about with me--you--you as you stood inthe chalet at night looking through the open window, with thecandle-light striking upward on your face, and with your reluctant smileupon your lips--you as you lay on the top of the Aiguille d'Argentierewith the wonder of a new world in your eyes--you as you said good-by inthe sunset and went down the winding path to the forest. If you onlyknew, Sylvia!"

"Yes, but I don't know," she answered, and now she looked at him. "Isuppose that, if I loved, I should know, I should understand."

Her hands lay in his, listless and unresponsive to the pressure of his.She spoke slowly and thoughtfully, meeting his gaze with troubled eyes.

"Yet you were glad to see me when I came," he urged.

"Glad, yes! You are my friend, my one friend. I was very glad. But thegladness passed. When you asked me to come with you across the garden, Iwas wanting you to go away."

The words hurt him. They could not but hurt him. But she was so plainlyunconscious of offence, she was so plainly trying to straighten out herown tangled position, that he could feel no anger.

"Why?" he asked; and again she frankly answered him.

"I was humbled," she replied, "and I have had so much humiliationin my life."

The very quietude of her voice and the wistful look upon the young tiredface hurt him far more than her words had done.

"Sylvia," he cried, and he drew her toward him. "Come with me now! Mydear, there will be an end of all humiliation. We can be married, we cango down to my home on the Sussex Downs. That old house needs a mistress,Sylvia. It is very lonely." He drew a breath and smiled suddenly. "And Iwould like so much to show you it, to show you all the corners, thebridle-paths across the downs, the woods, and the wide view from Arundelto Chichester spires. Sylvia, come!"

Just for a moment it seemed that she leaned toward him. He put his armabout her and held her for a moment closer. But her head was lowered, notlifted up to his; and then she freed herself gently from his clasp.

She faced him with a little wrinkle of thought between her brows andspoke with an air of wisdom which went very prettily with the childlikebeauty of her face.

"You are my friend," she said, "a friend I am very grateful for, but youare not more than that to me. I am frank. You see, I am thinking now ofreasons which would not trouble me if I loved you. Marriage with me woulddo you no good, would hurt you in your career."

"No," he protested.

"But I am thinking that it would," she replied, steadily, "and I do notbelieve that I should give much thought to it, if I really loved you. Iam thinking of something else, too--" and she spoke more boldly,choosing her words with care--"of a plan which before you came I hadformed, of a task which before you came I had set myself to do. I amstill thinking of it, still feeling that I ought to go on with it. I donot think that I should feel that if I loved. I think nothing else wouldcount at all except that I loved. So you are still my friend, and Icannot go with you."

Chayne looked at her for a moment sadly, with a mist before his eyes.

"I leave you to much unhappiness," he said, "and I hate thethought of it."

"Not quite so much now as before you came," she answered. "I am proud,you know, that you asked me," and putting her troubles aside, she smiledat him bravely, as though it was he who needed comforting. "Good-by! Letme hear of you through your success."

So again they said good-by at the time of sunset. Chayne mounted intothe landau and drove back along the road to Weymouth. "So that's theend," said Sylvia. She opened the door and passed again into the garden.Through the window of the library she saw her father and Walter Hine,watching, it seemed, for her appearance. It was borne in upon hersuddenly that she could not meet them or speak with them, and she ranvery quickly round the house to the front door, and escaped unaccostedto her room.

In the library Hine turned to Garratt Skinner with one of his rareflashes of shrewdness.

"I think," replied Garratt Skinner with a smile, "that Captain Chaynewill not trouble us with his company again."

CHAPTER XIV

AN OLD PASSION BETRAYS A NEW SECRET

Garratt Skinner, however, was wrong. He was not aware of the greatrevolution which had taken place in Chayne; and he misjudged histenacity. Chayne, like many another man, had mapped out his life only tofind that events would happen in a succession different to that which hehad ordained. He had arranged to devote his youth and the earlier part ofhis manhood entirely to his career, if the career were not brought to apremature end in the Alps. That possibility he had always foreseen. Hetook his risks with full knowledge, setting the gain against them, andcounting them worth while. If then he lived, he proposed at someindefinite time, in the late thirties, to fall in love and marry. He hadno parents living; there was the empty house upon the Sussex Downs; andthe small estate which for generations had descended from father to son.Marriage was thus a recognized event. Only it was thrust away into anindefinite future. But there had come an evening which he had notforeseen, when, sorely grieved by the loss of his great friend, he hadfallen in with a girl who gave with open hands the sympathy he needed,and claimed, by her very reticence and humility, his sympathy in return.A day had followed upon that evening; and thenceforth the image of Sylviastanding upon the snow-ridge of the Aiguille d'Argentiere, with a fewstrips of white cloud sailing in a blue sky overhead, the massive pile ofMont Blanc in front, freed to the sunlight which was her due, remainedfixed and riveted in his thoughts. He began in imagination to refermatters of moment to her judgment; he began to save up little events ofinterest that he might remember to tell them to her. He understood thathe had a companion, even when he was alone, a condition which he had notanticipated even for his late thirties. And he came to the conclusionthat he had not that complete ordering of his life on which he hadcounted. He was not, however, disappointed. He seized upon the good thingwhich had come to him with a great deal of wonder and a very thankfulheart; and he was not disposed to let it lightly go.

Thus the vulgarity which Garratt Skinner chose to assume, theunattractive figure of "red-hot" Barstow, and the obvious swindle whichwas being perpetrated on Walter Hine, had the opposite effect to thatwhich Skinner expected. Chayne, instead of turning his back upon sodistasteful a company, frequented it in the resolve to take Sylvia out ofits grasp. It did not need a lover to see that she slept little of nightsand passed distressful days. She had fled from her mother's friends atChamonix, only to find herself helpless amongst a worse gang in herfather's house. Very well. She must be released. He had proposed to takeher away then and there. She had refused. Well, he had been blunt. Hewould go about the business in the future in a more delicate way. And sohe came again and again to the little house under the hill where thestream babbled through the garden, and every day the apples grew redderupon the boughs.

But it was disheartening work. His position indeed became difficult, andit needed all his tenacity to enable him to endure it. The difficultybecame very evident one afternoon early in August, and the afternoon was,moveover, remarkable in that Garratt Skinner was betrayed into arevelation of himself which was to bear consequences of gravity in afuture which he could not foresee. Chayne rode over upon that afternoon,and found Garratt Skinner alone and, according to his habit, stretched atfull-length in his hammock with a cigar between his lips. He receivedCaptain Chayne with the utmost geniality. He had long since laid asidehis ineffectual vulgarity of manner.

"You must put up with me, Captain Chayne," he said. "My daughter is out.However, she--I ought more properly to say, they--will be back no doubtbefore long."

"They being--"

"Sylvia and Walter Hine."

Chayne nodded his head. He had known very well who "they" must be, but hehad not been able to refrain from the question. Jealousy had hold of him.He knew nothing of Sylvia's determination to acquire a power greater thanher father's over the vain and defenceless youth. The words with whichshe had hinted her plan to him had been too obscure to convey theirmeaning. He was simply aware that Sylvia more and more avoided him, moreand more sought the companionship of Walter Hine; and such experience ashe had, taught him that women were as apt to be blind in their judgmentof men as men in their estimation of women.

He sought now to enlist Garratt Skinner on his side, and drawing a chairnearer to the hammock he sat down.

"Mr. Skinner," he said, speaking upon an impulse, "you have no doubt inyour mind, I suppose, as to why I come here so often."

Garratt Skinner smiled.

"I make a guess, I admit."

"I should be very glad if your daughter would marry me," Chaynecontinued, "and I want you to give me your help. I am not a poor man, Mr.Skinner, and I should certainly be willing to recognize that in takingher away from you I laid myself under considerable obligations."

Chayne spoke with some natural hesitation, but Garratt Skinner was not inthe least offended.

"I will not pretend to misunderstand you," he replied. "Indeed, I likeyour frankness. Please take what I say in the same spirit. I cannot giveyou any help, Captain Chayne."

"Why?"

Garratt Skinner raised himself upon his elbow, and fixing his eyes uponhis companion's face, said distinctly and significantly:

"Because Sylvia has her work to do here."

Chayne in his turn made no pretence to misunderstand. He was being toldclearly that Sylvia was in league with her father and Captain Barstow topluck Walter Hine. But he was anxious to discover how far GarrattSkinner's cynicism would carry him.

"Will you define the work?" he asked.

"If you wish it," replied Garratt Skinner, falling back in his hammock."I should have thought it unnecessary myself. The work is the reclaimingof Wallie Hine from the very undesirable company in which he has mixed.Do you understand?"

"Quite," said Chayne. He understood very well. He had been told first thereal design--to pluck Walter Hine--and then the excuse which was to cloakit. He understood, too, the reason why this information had been given tohim with so cynical a frankness. He, Chayne, was in the way. Declare theswindle and persuade him that Sylvia was a party to it--what more likelyway could be discovered for getting rid of Captain Chayne? He looked athis smiling companion, took note of his strong aquiline face, his clearand steady eyes. He recognized a redoubtable antagonist, but he leanedforward and said with a quiet emphasis:

"Mr. Skinner, I have, nevertheless, not lost heart."

Garratt Skinner laughed in a friendly way.

"I suppose not. It is only in the wisdom of middle age that we loseheart. In youth we lose our hearts--a very different thing."

"I propose still to come to this house."

"As often as you will, Captain Chayne," said Garratt Skinner, gaily. "Mydoors are always open to you. I am not such a fool as to give you aromantic interest by barring you out."

Garratt Skinner had another reason for his hospitality which he kept tohimself. He was inclined to believe that a few more visits from CaptainChayne would settle his chances without the necessity of anyinterference. It was Garratt Skinner's business, as that of any otherrogue, to play with simple artifices upon the faults and vanities of men.He had, therefore, cultivated a habit of observation; he had becomenaturally attentive to trifles which others might overlook; and he wasaware that he needed to go very warily in the delicate business on whichhe was now engaged. He was fighting Sylvia for the possession of WalterHine--that he had recognized--and Chayne for the possession of Sylvia. Itwas a three-cornered contest, and he had in consequence kept his eyesalert. He had noticed that Chayne was growing importunate, and that hispersistence was becoming troublesome to Sylvia. She gave him a less warmwelcome each time that he came to the house. She made plans to preventherself being left alone with him, and if by chance the plans failed shelistened rather than talked and listened almost with an air of boredom.

"Come as often as you please!" consequently said Garratt Skinner from hishammock. "And now let us talk of something else."

He talked of nothing for a while. But it was plain that he had a subjectin his thoughts. For twice he turned to Chayne and was on the point ofspeaking; but each time he thought silence the better part and lay backagain. Chayne waited and at last the subject was broached, but in aqueer, hesitating, diffident way, as though Garratt Skinner spoke ratherunder a compulsion of which he disapproved.

"Tell me!" he said. "I am rather interested. A craze, an infatuationwhich so masters people must be interesting even to the stay-at-homeslike myself. But I am wrong to call it a craze. From merely reading booksI think it a passion which is easily intelligible. You are wondering whatI am talking about. My daughter tells me that you are a famous climber.The Aiguille d'Argentiere, I suppose, up which you were kind enough toaccompany her, is not a very difficult mountain."

"It depends upon the day," said Chayne, "and the state of the snow."

"Yes, that is what I have gathered from the books. Every mountain maybecome dangerous."

"Yes."

"Each mountain," said Garratt Skinner, thoughtfully, "may reward itsconquerors with death"; and for a little while he lay looking up to thegreen branches interlaced above his head. "Thus each mountain on thebrightest day holds in its recesses mystery, and also death."

There had come a change already in the manner of the two men. They foundthemselves upon neutral ground. Their faces relaxed from wariness; theywere no longer upon their guard. It seemed that an actual comradeship hadsprung up between them.

"There is a mountain called the Grepon," said Skinner. "I have seenpictures of it--a strange and rather attractive pinnacle, with itsknife-like slabs of rock, set on end one above the other--black rocksplashed with red--and the overhanging boulder on the top. Have youclimbed it?"

"Yes."

"There is a crack, I believe--a good place to get you into training."

Chayne laughed with the enjoyment of a man who recollects a stiffdifficulty overcome.

"Yes, to the right of the Col between the Grepon and the Charmoz. Thereis a step half way up--otherwise there is very little hold and the crackis very steep."

They talked of other peaks, such as the Charmoz, where the first lines ofascent had given place to others more recently discovered, of newvariations, new ascents and pinnacles still unclimbed; and then GarrattSkinner said:

"I saw that a man actually crossed the Col des Nantillons early thissummer. It used to be called the Col de Blaitiere. He was killed withhis guide, but after the real dangers were passed. That seems to happenat times."

Chayne looked at Garratt Skinner in surprise.

"It is strange that you should have mentioned John Lattery's death," hesaid, slowly.

"Oh, yes. No doubt it was described. What I meant was this. John Latterywas my great friend, and he was a distant kind of cousin to your friendWalter Hine, and indeed co-heir with him to Joseph Hine's great fortune.His death, I suppose, has doubled your friend's inheritance."

Garratt Skinner raised himself up on his elbow. The announcement wasreally news to him.

"Is that so?" he asked. "It is true, then. The mountains hold death tooin their recesses--even on the clearest day--yes, they hold death too!"And letting himself fall gently back upon his cushions, he remained for awhile with a very thoughtful look upon his face. Twice Chayne spoke tohim, and twice he did not hear. He lay absorbed. It seemed that a new andengrossing idea had taken possession of his mind, and when he turned hiseyes again to Chayne and spoke, he appeared to be speaking with referenceto that idea rather than to any remarks of his companion.

"Did you ever ascend Mont Blanc by the Brenva route?" he asked. "There'sa thin ridge of ice--I read an account in Moore's 'Journal'--you have tostraddle across the ridge with a leg hanging down either precipice."

Chayne shook his head.

"Lattery and I meant to try it this summer. The Dent du Requin as well."

"Ah, that is one of the modern rock scrambles, isn't it? The last two orthree hundred feet are the trouble, I believe."

And so the talk went on and the comradeship grew. But Chayne noticed thatalways Garratt Skinner came back to the great climbs of the earliermountaineers, the Brenva ascent of Mont Blanc, the Col Dolent, the twopoints of the Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Verte.

"But you, too, have climbed," Chayne cried at length.

"On winter nights by my fireside," replied Garratt Skinner, with a smile."I have a lame leg which would hinder me."

"Nevertheless, you left Miss Sylvia and myself behind when you led usover the hills to Dorchester."

It was Walter Hine who interrupted. He had come across the grass frombehind, and neither of the two men had noticed his approach. But themoment when he did interrupt marked a change in their demeanor. Thecomradeship which had so quickly bloomed as quickly faded. It was theflower of an idle moment. Antagonism preceded and followed it. Thus, onemight imagine, might sentries at the outposts of opposing armies piletheir arms for half an hour and gossip of their homes or their children,or of something dear to both of them and separate at the bugle sound.Garratt Skinner swung himself out of his hammock.

"Where's Sylvia, Wallie?"

"She went up to her room."

Chayne waited for ten minutes, and for another ten, and still Sylvia didnot appear. She was avoiding him. She could spend the afternoon withWalter Hine, but she must run to her room when he came upon the scene.Jealousy flamed up in him. Every now and then a whimsical smile ofamusement showed upon Garratt Skinner's face and broadened into a grin.Chayne was looking a fool, and was quite conscious of it. He roseabruptly from his chair.

"I must be going," he said, over loudly, and Garratt Skinner smiled.

"I'm afraid she won't hear that," he said softly, measuring with his eyesthe distance between the group and the house. "But come again, CaptainChayne, and sit it out."

Chayne flushed with anger. He said, "Thank you," and tried to say itjauntily and failed. He took his leave and walked across the lawn to thegarden, trying to assume a carriage of indifference and dignity. Butevery moment he expected to hear the two whom he had left laughing at hisdiscomfiture. Neither, however, did laugh. Walter Hine was, indeed,indignant.

"Why did you ask him to come again?" he asked, angrily, as the gardendoor closed upon Chayne.

Garratt Skinner laid his hand on Walter Hine's arm.

"Don't you worry, Wallie," he said, confidentially. "Every time Chaynecomes here he loses ten marks. Give him rope! He does not, after all,know a great deal of geography."

CHAPTER XV

KENYON'S JOHN LATTERY

Chayne returned to London on the following day, restless and troubled.Jealousy, he knew, was the natural lot of the lover. But that he shouldhave to be jealous of a Walter Hine--there was the sting. He asked theold question over and over again, the old futile question which theunrewarded suitor puts to himself with amazement and a despair at theridiculous eccentricities of human nature. "What in the world can she seein the fellow?" However, he did not lose heart. It was not in his natureto let go once he had clearly set his desires upon a particular goal.Sooner or later, people and things would adjust themselves to theirproper proportions in Sylvia's eyes. Meanwhile there was something to bedone--a doubt to be set at rest, perhaps a discovery to be made.

His conversation with Garratt Skinner, the subject which Garratt Skinnerhad chosen, and the knowledge with which he had spoken, had seemed toChayne rather curious. A man might sit by his fireside and follow withinterest, nay almost with the passion of the mountaineer, the history ofAlpine exploration and adventure. That had happened before now. And verylikely Chayne would have troubled himself no more about Garratt Skinner'sintroduction of the theme but for one or two circumstances which the morehe reflected upon them became the more significant. For instance: GarrattSkinner had spoken and had asked questions about the new ascents made,the new passes crossed within the last twenty years, just as a man wouldask who had obtained his knowledge out of books. But of the earlierascents he had spoken differently, though the difference was subtle andhard to define. He seemed to be upon more familiar ground. He left inChayne's mind a definite suspicion that he was speaking no longer out ofbooks, but from an intimate personal knowledge, the knowledge of actualexperience. The suspicion had grown up gradually, but it had strengthenedalmost into a conviction.

It was to the old climbs that Garratt Skinner's conversation perpetuallyrecurred--the Aiguille Verte, the Grand and the Petit Dru and thetraverse between them, the Col Dolent, the Grandes Jorasses and theBrenva route--yes, above all, the Brenva route up Mont Blanc. Moreover,how in the world should he know that those slabs of black granite on thetop of the Grepon were veined with red--splashed with red as he describedthem? Unless he had ascended them, or the Aiguille des Charmozopposite--how should he know? The philosophy of his guide MichelRevailloud flashed across Chayne's mind. "One needs some one with whom toexchange one's memories."

Had Garratt Skinner felt that need and felt it with so much compulsionthat he must satisfy it in spite of himself? Yet why should he practiseconcealment at all? There certainly had been concealment. Chayneremembered how more than once Garratt Skinner had checked himself beforeat last he had yielded. It was in spite of himself that he had spoken.And then suddenly as the train drew up at Vauxhall Station for thetickets to be collected, Chayne started up in his seat. On the rocks ofthe Argentiere, beside the great gully, as they descended to the glacier,Sylvia's guide had spoken words which came flying back into Chayne'sthoughts. She had climbed that day, though it was her first mountain, asif knowledge of the craft had been born in her. How to stand upon anice-slope, how to hold her ax--she had known. On the rocks, too! Whichfoot to advance, with which hand to grasp the hold--she had known.Suppose that knowledge _had_ been born in her! Why, then those words ofher guide began to acquire significance. She had reminded him of someone--some one whose name he could not remember--but some one with whomyears ago he had climbed. And then upon the rocks, some chance movementof Sylvia's, some way in which she moved from ledge to ledge, hadrevealed to him the name--Gabriel Strood.

Was it possible, Chayne asked? If so, what dark thing was there in therecord of Strood's life that he must change his name, disappear from theworld, and avoid the summer nights, the days of sunshine and storm on thehigh rock-ledges and the ice-slope?

Chayne was minded to find an answer to that question. Sylvia was introuble; that house under the downs was no place for her. He himself wasafraid of what was being planned there. It might help him if he knewsomething more of Garratt Skinner than he knew at present. And it seemedto him that there was just a chance of acquiring that knowledge.

He dined at his club, and at ten o'clock walked up St. James' Street.The street was empty. It was a hot starlit night of the first week inAugust, and there came upon him a swift homesickness for the world abovethe snow-line. How many of his friends were sleeping that night inmountain huts high up on the shoulders of the mountains or in bivouacsopen to the stars with a rock-cliff at their backs and a fire of pinewood blazing at their feet. Most likely amongst those friends was theone he sought to-night.

"Still there's a chance that I may find him," he pleaded, andcrossing Piccadilly passed into Dover Street. Half way along thestreet of milliners, he stopped before a house where a famous scholarhad his lodging.

"Is Mr. Kenyon in London?" he asked, and the man-servant replied to hisgreat relief:

"Yes, sir, but he is not yet at home."

"I will wait for him," said Chayne.

He was shown into the study and left there with a lighted lamp. Theroom was lined with books from floor to ceiling. Chayne mounted aladder and took down from a high corner some volumes bound simply inbrown cloth. They were volumes of the "Alpine Journal." He had chosenthose which dated back from twenty years to a quarter of a century. Hedrew a chair up beside the lamp and began eagerly to turn over thepages. Often he stopped, for the name of which he was in search oftenleaped to his eyes from the pages. Chayne read of the exploits in theAlps of Gabriel Strood. More than one new expedition was described,many variations of old ascents, many climbs already familiar. It wasclear that the man was of the true brotherhood. A new climb was verywell, but the old were as good to Gabriel Strood, and the climb whichhe had once made he had the longing to repeat with new companions. Noneof the descriptions were written by Strood himself but all bycompanions whom he had led, and most of them bore testimony to anunusual endurance, an unusual courage, as though Strood triumphedperpetually over a difficulty which his companions did not share and ofwhich only vague hints were given. At last Chayne came to that verynarrative which Sylvia had been reading on her way to Chamonix--andthere the truth was bluntly told for the first time.

Chayne started up in that dim and quiet room, thrilled. He had the proofnow, under his finger--the indisputable proof. Gabriel Strood sufferedfrom an affection of the muscles in his right thigh, and yet managed toout-distance all his rivals. Hine's words drummed in Chayne's ears:

"Nevertheless he left us all behind."

Garratt Skinner: Gabriel Strood. Surely, surely! He replaced the volumesand took others down. In the first which he opened--it was the autumnnumber of nineteen years ago--there was again mention of the man; and theclimb described was the ascent of Mont Blanc from the Brenva Glacier.Chayne leaned back in his chair fairly startled by this confirmation. Itwas to the Brenva route that Garratt Skinner had continually harked back.The Aiguille Verte, the Grandes Jorasses, the Charmoz, theBlaitiere--yes, he had talked of them all, but ever he had come back,with an eager voice and a fire in his eyes, to the ice-arete of theBrenva route. Chayne searched on through the pages. But there was nowherein any volume on which he laid his hands any further record of hisexploits. Others who followed in his steps mentioned his name, but of theman himself there was no word more. No one had climbed with him, no onehad caught a glimpse of him above the snow-line. For five or six seasonshe had flashed through the Alps. Arolla, Zermatt, the Montanvert, theConcordia hut--all had known him for five or six seasons, and then justunder twenty years ago he had come no more.

Chayne put back the volumes in their places on the shelf, and sat downagain in the arm-chair before the empty grate. It was a strange and ahaunting story which he was gradually piecing together in his thoughts.Men like Gabriel Strood _always_ come back to the Alps. They sleep toorestlessly at nights, they needs must come. And yet this man had stayedaway. There must have been some great impediment. He fell into anothertrain of thought. Sylvia was eighteen, nearly nineteen. Had GabrielStrood married just after that last season when he climbed from theBrenva Glacier to the Calotte. The story was still not unraveled, andwhile he perplexed his fancies over the unraveling, the door opened, anda tall, thin man with a pointed beard stood upon the threshold. He was aman of fifty years; his shoulders were just learning how to stoop; andhis face, fine and delicate, yet lacking nothing of strength, wore anaspect of melancholy, as though he lived much alone--until he smiled. Andin the smile there was much companionship and love. He smiled now as hestretched out his long, finely-molded hand.

"I am very glad to see you, Chayne," he said, in a voice remarkable forits gentleness, "although in another way I am sorry. I am sorry because,of course, I know why you are in England and not among the Alps."

Chayne had risen from his chair, but Kenyon laid a hand upon his shoulderand forced him down again with a friendly pressure. "I read of Lattery'sdeath. I am grieved about it--for you as much as for Lattery. I know justwhat that kind of loss means. It means very much," said he, letting hisdeep-set eyes rest with sympathy upon the face of the younger man. Kenyonput a whisky and soda by Chayne's elbow, and setting the tobacco jar on alittle table between them, sat down and lighted his pipe.

"You came back at once?" he asked.

"I crossed the Col Dolent and went down into Italy," replied Chayne.

"Yes, yes," said Kenyon, nodding his head. "But you will go back nextyear, or the year after."

"Perhaps," said Chayne; and for a little while they smoked their pipes insilence. Then Chayne came to the object of his visit.

"Kenyon," he asked, "have you any photographs of the people who wentclimbing twenty to twenty-five years ago? I thought perhaps you mighthave some groups taken in Switzerland in those days. If you have, Ishould like to see them."

"Yes, I think I have," said Kenyon. He went to his writing-desk andopening a drawer took out a number of photographs. He brought them back,and moving the green-shaded lamp so that the light fell clear and strongupon the little table, laid them down.

Chayne bent over them with a beating heart. Was his suspicion to beconfirmed or disproved?

One by one he took the photographs, closely examined them, and laidthem aside while Kenyon stood upright on the other side of the table.He had turned over a dozen before he stopped. He held in his hand thepicture of a Swiss hotel, with an open space before the door. In theopen space men were gathered. They were talking in groups; some of themleaned upon ice-axes, some carried _Ruecksacks_ upon their backs, asthough upon the point of starting for the hills. As he held thephotograph a little nearer to the lamp, and bent his head a littlelower, Kenyon made a slight uneasy movement. But Chayne did not notice.He sat very still, with his eyes fixed upon the photograph. On theoutskirts of the group stood Sylvia's father. Younger, slighter ofbuild, with a face unlined and a boyish grace which had long sincegone--but undoubtedly Sylvia's father.

The contours of the mountains told Chayne clearly enough in what valleythe hotel stood.

"This is Zermatt," he said, without lifting his eyes.

"Yes," replied Kenyon, quietly, "a Zermatt you are too young to know,"and then Chayne's forefinger dropped upon the figure of Sylvia's father.

"Who is this?" he asked.

Kenyon made no answer.

"It is Gabriel Strood," Chayne continued.

There was a pause, and then Kenyon confirmed the guess.

"Yes," he said, and some hint of emotion in his voice made Chayne lifthis eyes. The light striking upward through the green shade gave toKenyon's face an extraordinary pallor. But it seemed to Chayne that notall the pallor was due to the lamp.

"For six seasons," Chayne said, "Gabriel Strood came to the Alps. In hisfirst season he made a great name."

"He was the best climber I have ever seen," replied Kenyon.

"He had a passion for the mountains. Yet after six years he came back nomore. He disappeared. Why?"

Kenyon stood absolutely silent, absolutely still. Perhaps the troubledeepened a little on his face; but that was all. Chayne, however, wasbent upon an answer. For Sylvia's sake alone he must have it, he mustknow the father into whose clutches she had come.

"You knew Gabriel Strood. Why?"

Kenyon leaned forward and gently took the photograph out of Chayne'shand. He mixed it with the others, not giving to it a single glancehimself, and then replaced them all in the drawer from which he had takenthem. He came back to the table and at last answered Chayne:

"John Lattery was your friend. Some of the best hours of your life werepassed in his company. You know that now. But you will know it stillmore surely when you come to my age, whatever happiness may come to youbetween now and then. The camp-fire, the rock-slab for your floor andthe black night about you for walls, the hours of talk, the ridge andthe ice-slope, the bad times in storm and mist, the good times in thesunshine, the cold nights of hunger when you were caught by thedarkness, the off-days when you lounged at your ease. You won't forgetJohn Lattery."

Kenyon spoke very quietly but with a conviction, and, indeed, a certainsolemnity, which impressed his companion.

"No," said Chayne, gently, "I shall not forget John Lattery." But hisquestion was still unanswered, and by nature he was tenacious. His eyeswere still upon Kenyon's face and he added: "What then?"

"Only this," said Kenyon. "Gabriel Strood was my John Lattery," andmoving round the table he dropped his hand upon Chayne's shoulder. "Youwill ask me no more questions," he said, with a smile.

"I beg your pardon," said Chayne.

He had his answer. He knew now that there was something to conceal, thatthere was a definite reason why Gabriel Strood disappeared.

"Good-night," he said; and as he left the room he saw Kenyon sink downinto his arm-chair. There seemed something sad and very lonely in theattitude of the older man. Once more Michel Revailloud's warning rose upwithin his mind.

"When it is all over, and you go home, take care that there is a lightedlamp in the room and the room not empty. Have some one to share yourmemories when life is nothing but memories."

At every turn the simple philosophy of Michel Revailloud seemed to obtainan instance and a confirmation. Was that to be his own fate too? Just fora moment he was daunted. He closed the door noiselessly, and going downthe stairs let himself out into the street. The night was clear above hishead. How was it above the Downs of Dorsetshire, he wondered. He walkedalong the street very slowly. Garratt Skinner was Gabriel Strood. Therewas clearly a dark reason for the metamorphosis. It remained for Chayneto discover that reason. But he did not ponder any more upon that problemto-night. He was merely thinking as he walked along the street thatMichel Revailloud was a very wise man.

CHAPTER XVI

AS BETWEEN GENTLEMEN

"Between gentlemen," said Wallie Hine. "Yes, between gentlemen."

He was quoting from a letter which he held in his hand, as he sat at thebreakfast table, and, in his agitation, he had quoted aloud. GarrattSkinner looked up from his plate and said:

"Can I help you, Wallie?"

Hine flushed red and stammered out: "No, thank you. I must run up to townthis morning--that's all."

"Sylvia will drive you into Weymouth in the dog-cart after breakfast,"said Garratt Skinner, and he made no further reference to the journey.But he glared at the handwriting of the letter, and then with someperplexity at Walter Hine. "You will be back this evening, I suppose?"

"Rather," said Walter Hine, with a smile across the table at Sylvia; buthis agitation got the better of his gallantry, and as she drove him intoWeymouth, he spoke as piteously as a child appealing for protection. "Idon't want to go one little bit, Miss Sylvia. But between gentlemen. Yes,I mustn't forget that. Between gentlemen." He clung to the phrase,finding some comfort in its reiteration.

"You have given me your promise," said Sylvia. "There will be nocards, no bets."

Walter Hine laughed bitterly.

"I shan't break it. I have had my lesson. By Jove, I have."

Walter Hine traveled to Waterloo and drove straight to the office ofMr. Jarvice.

"I owe some money," he began, bleating the words out the moment he wasushered into the inner office.

Mr. Jarvice grinned.

"This interview is concluded," he said. "There's the door."

"I owe it to a friend, Captain Barstow," Hine continued, in desperation."A thousand pounds. He has written for it. He says that debts of honorbetween gentlemen--" But he got no further, for Mr. Jarvice broke in uponhis faltering explanations with a snarl of contempt.

"Barstow! You poor little innocent. I have something else to do with mymoney than to pour it into Barstow's pockets. I know the man. Send him tome to-morrow, and I'll talk to him--as between gentlemen."

Walter Hine flushed. He had grown accustomed to deference and flatteriesin the household of Garratt Skinner. The unceremonious scorn of Mr.Jarvice stung his vanity, and vanity was the one strong element of hischaracter. He was in the mind hotly to defend Captain Barstow from Mr.Jarvice's insinuations, but he refrained.

"Then Barstow will know that I draw my allowance from you, and not frommy grandfather," he stammered. There was the trouble for Walter Hine.If Barstow knew, Garratt Skinner would come to know. There would be anend to the deference and the flatteries. He would no longer be able topose as the favorite of the great millionaire, Joseph Hine. He wouldsink in Sylvia's eyes. At the cost of any humiliation that downfallmust be avoided.

His words, however, had an immediate effect upon Mr. Jarvice, though forquite other reasons.

"Why, that's true," said Mr. Jarvice, slowly, and in a voice suddenlygrown smooth. "Yes, yes, we don't want to mix up my name in the affair atall. Sit down, Mr. Hine, and take a cigar. The box is at your elbow.Young men of spirit must have some extra license allowed to them for thesake of the promise of their riper years. I was forgetting that. No, wedon't want my name to appear at all, do we?"

Publicity had no charms for Mr. Jarvice. Indeed, on more than oneoccasion he had found it quite a hindrance to the development of hislittle plans. To go his own quiet way, unheralded by the press andunacclaimed of men--that was the modest ambition of Mr. Jarvice.

"However, I don't look forward to handing over a thousand pounds toCaptain Barstow," he continued, softly. "No, indeed. Did you lose any ofyour first quarter's allowance to him besides the thousand?"

Walter Hine lit his cigar and answered reluctantly:

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Oh no, no, not all of it."

Jarvice did not press for the exact amount. He walked to the window andstood there with his hands in his pockets and his back toward hisvisitor. Walter Hine watched his shoulders in suspense and apprehension.He would have been greatly surprised if he could have caught a glimpse atthis moment of Mr. Jarvice's face. There was no anger, no contempt,expressed in it at all. On the contrary, a quiet smile of satisfactiongave to it almost a merry look. Mr. Jarvice had certain plans for WalterHine's future--so he phrased it with a smile for the grim humor of thephrase--and fate seemed to be helping toward their fulfilment.

"I can get you out of this scrape, no doubt," said Jarvice, turning backto his table. "The means I must think over, but I can do it. Only there'sa condition. You need not be alarmed. A little condition which a lovingfather might impose upon his only son," and Mr. Jarvice beamed paternallyas he resumed his seat.

"What is the condition?" asked Walter Hine.

"That you travel for a year, broaden your mind by visiting the greatcountries and capitals of Europe, take a little trip perhaps into theEast and return a cultured gentleman well equipped to occupy the highposition which will be yours when your grandfather is in due timetranslated to a better sphere."

Mr. Jarvice leaned back in his chair, and with a confident wave of hisdesk ruler had the air of producing the startling metamorphosis like someheavy but benevolent fairy. Walter Hine, however, was not attracted bythe prospect.

"But--" he began, and at once Mr. Jarvice interrupted him.

"I anticipate you," he said, with a smile. "Standing at the window there,I foresaw your objection. But--it would be lonely. Quite true. Why shouldyou be lonely? And so I am going to lay my hands on some pleasant andcompanionable young fellow who will go with you for his expenses. AnOxford man, eh? Fresh from Alma Mater with a taste for pictures andstatuettes and that sort of thing! Upon my word, I envy you, Mr. Hine. IfI were young, bless me, if I wouldn't throw my bonnet over the mill, asafter a few weeks in La Ville Lumiere you will be saying, and go withyou. You will taste life--yes, life."

And as he repeated the word, all the jollity died suddenly out of theface of Mr. Jarvice. He bent his eyes somberly upon his visitor and aqueer inscrutable smile played about his lips. But Walter Hine had noeyes for Mr. Jarvice. He was nerving himself to refuse the proposal.

"I can't go," he blurted out, with the ungracious stubbornness of a weakmind which fears to be over-persuaded. Afraid lest he should consent, herefused aggressively and rudely.

Mr. Jarvice repressed an exclamation of anger. "And why?" he asked,leaning forward on his elbows and fixing his bright, sharp eyes on WalterHine's face.

Mr. Jarvice beat upon his desk with his fists in a savage anger. Hiscarefully calculated plan was to be thwarted by a girl.

"She's a dear," cried Walter Hine. Having made the admission, he lethimself go. His vanity pricked him to lyrical flights. "She's a dear,she's a sob, she would never let me go, she's my little girl."

Such was Sylvia's reward for engaging in a struggle which she loathed forthe salvation of Walter Hine. She was jubilantly claimed by him as hislittle girl in a money-lender's office. Mr. Jarvice swore aloud.

"Who is she?" he asked, sternly.

A faint sense of shame came over Walter Hine. He dimly imagined whatSylvia would have thought and said, and what contempt her looks wouldhave betrayed, had she heard him thus boast of her goodwill.

"You are asking too much, Mr. Jarvice," he said.

Mr. Jarvice waved the objection aside.

"Of course I ask it as between gentlemen," he said, with an ironicalpoliteness.

"Well, then, as between gentlemen," returned Walter Hine, seriously. "Sheis the daughter of a great friend of mine, Mr. Garratt Skinner. What'sthe matter?" he cried; and there was reason for his cry.

It had been an afternoon of surprises for Mr. Jarvice, but this simplemention of the name of Garratt Skinner was more than a surprise. Mr.Jarvice was positively startled. He leaned back in his chair with hismouth open and his eyes staring at Walter Hine. The high color paled inhis face and his cheeks grew mottled. It seemed that fear as well assurprise came to him in the knowledge that Garratt Skinner was a friendof Walter Hine.

"What is the matter?" repeated Hine.

"It's nothing," replied Mr. Jarvice, hastily. "The heat, that is all."He crossed the room, and throwing up the window leaned for a few momentsupon the sill. Yet even when he spoke again, there was still a certainunsteadiness in his voice. "How did you come across Mr. GarrattSkinner?" he asked.

"Barstow introduced me. I made Barstow's acquaintance at the CriterionBar, and he took me to Garratt Skinner's house in Hobart Place."

"I see," said Mr. Jarvice. "It was in Garratt Skinner's house that youlost your money, I suppose."

"Yes, but he had no hand in it," exclaimed Walter Hine. "He does not knowhow much I lost. He would be angry if he did."

A faint smile flickered across Jarvice's face.

"Quite so," he agreed, and under his deft cross-examination the wholestory was unfolded. The little dinner at which Sylvia made herappearance and at which Walter Hine was carefully primed with drink; thelittle round game of cards which Garratt Skinner was so reluctant toallow in his house on a Sunday evening, and from which, being an earlyriser, he retired to bed, leaving Hine in the hands of Captain Barstowand Archie Parminter; the quiet secluded house in the country; the newgardener who appeared for one day and shot with so surprising anaccuracy, when Barstow backed him against Walter Hine, that Hine lost athousand pounds; the incidents were related to Mr. Jarvice in theirproper succession, and he interpreted them by his own experience.Captain Barstow, who was always to the fore, counted for nothing in thestory as Jarvice understood it. He was the mere creature, the servant.Garratt Skinner, who was always in the background, prepared the swindleand pocketed the profits.

"You are staying at the quiet house in Dorsetshire now, I suppose. Justyou and Garratt Skinner and the pretty daughter, with occasional visitsfrom Barstow?"

"Yes," answered Hine. "Garratt Skinner does not care to see muchcompany."

Once more the smile of amusement played upon Mr. Jarvice's face.

"No, I suppose not," he said, quietly. There were certain definitereasons of which he was aware, to account for Garratt Skinner'sreluctance to appear in a general company. He turned back from the windowand returned to his table. He had taken his part. There was no longereither unsteadiness or anger in his voice.

"I quite understand your reluctance to leave your new friends," he said,with the utmost friendliness. "I recognize that the tour abroad on whichI had rather set my heart must be abandoned. But I have no regrets. For Ithink it possible that the very object which I had in mind when proposingthat tour may be quite as easily effected in the charming country houseof Garratt Skinner."

He spoke in a quiet matter-of-fact voice, looking benevolently at hisvisitor. If the words were capable of another and a more sinister meaningthan they appeared to convey, Walter Hine did not suspect it. He tookthem in their obvious sense.

"Yes, I shall gain as much culture in Garratt Skinner's house as I shouldby seeing picture-galleries abroad," he said eagerly, and then Mr.Jarvice smiled.

"I think that very likely," he said. "Meanwhile, as to Barstow and histhousand pounds. I must think the matter over. Barstow will not press youfor a day or two. Just leave me your address--the address inDorsetshire."

He dipped a pen in the ink and handed it to Hine. Hine took it and drew asheet of paper toward him. But he did not set the pen to the paper. Helooked suddenly up at Jarvice, who stood over against him at the otherside of the table.

"Garratt Skinner's address?" he said, with one of his flashes of cunning.

"Yes, since you are staying there. I shall want to write to you."

Walter Hine still hesitated.

"You won't peach to Garratt Skinner about the allowance, eh?"

"My dear fellow!" said Mr. Jarvice. He was more hurt than offended. "Toput it on the lowest ground, what could I gain?"

Walter Hine wrote down the address, and at once the clerk appeared at thedoor and handed Jarvice a card.

"I will see him," said Jarvice, and turning to Hine: "Our business isover, I think."

Jarvice opened a second door which led from the inner office straightdown a little staircase into the street. "Good-by. You shall hear fromme," he said, and Walter Hine went out.

Jarvice closed the door and turned back to his clerk.

"That will do," he said.

There was no client waiting at all. Mr. Jarvice had an ingeniouscontrivance for getting rid of his clients at the critical moment afterthey had come to a decision and before they had time to change theirminds. By pressing a particular button in the leather covering of theright arm of his chair, he moved an indicator above the desk of his clerkin the outer office. The clerk thereupon announced a visitor, and the onein occupation was bowed out by the private staircase. By this methodWalter Hine had been dismissed.

Jarvice had the address of Garratt Skinner. But he sat with it in frontof him upon his desk for a long time before he could bring himself to useit. All the amiability had gone from his expression now that he wasalone. He was in a savage mood, and every now and then a violent gesturebetrayed it. But it was with himself that he was angry. He had been afool not to keep a closer watch on Walter Hine.

"I might have foreseen," he cried in his exasperation. "Garratt Skinner!If I had not been an ass, I _should_ have foreseen."

For Mr. Jarvice was no stranger to Walter Hine's new friend. More thanone young buck fresh from the provinces, heir to the great factory or thegreat estate, had been steered into this inner office by the carefulpilotage of Garratt Skinner. In all the army of the men who live by theirwits, there was not one to Jarvice's knowledge who was so alert asGarratt Skinner to lay hands upon the new victim or so successful inlulling his suspicions. He might have foreseen that Garratt Skinner wouldthrow his net over Walter Hine. But he had not, and the harm was done.

Mr. Jarvice took the insurance policy from his safe and shook his headover it sadly. He had seen his way to making in his quiet fashion, and atcomparatively little cost, a tidy little sum of one hundred thousandpounds. Now he must take a partner, so that he might not have an enemy.Garratt Skinner with Barstow for his jackal and the pretty daughter forhis decoy was too powerful a factor to be lightly regarded. Jarvice mustshare with Garratt Skinner--unless he preferred to abandon his schemealtogether; and that Mr. Jarvice would not do.

There was no other way. Jarvice knew well that he could weaken GarrattSkinner's influence over Walter Hine by revealing to the youth certainepisodes in the new friend's life. He might even break theacquaintanceship altogether. But Garratt Skinner would surely discoverwho had been at work. And then? Why, then, Mr. Jarvice would have uponhis heels a shrewd and watchful enemy; and in this particular business,such an enemy Mr. Jarvice could not afford to have. Jarvice was not animpressionable man, but his hands grew cold while he imagined GarrattSkinner watching the development of his little scheme--the tour abroadwith the pleasant companion, the things which were to happen on thetour--watching and waiting until the fitting moment had come, when allwas over, for him to step in and demand the price of his silence and holdMr. Jarvice in the hollow of his hand for all his life. No, that wouldnever do. Garratt Skinner must be a partner so that also he might be anaccessory.

Accordingly, Jarvice wrote his letter to Garratt Skinner, a few linesurging him to come to London on most important business. Never wasthere a letter more innocent in its appearance than that which Jarvicewrote in his inner office on that summer afternoon. Yet even at thelast he hesitated whether he should seal it up or no. The sun wentdown, shadows touched with long cool fingers the burning streets;shadows entered into that little inner office of Mr. Jarvice. But stillhe sat undecided at his desk.

The tour upon the Continent must be abandoned, and with it the journeyunder canvas to the near East--a scheme so simple, so sure, so safe.Still Garratt Skinner might confidently be left to devise another. And hehad always kept faith. To that comforting thought Mr. Jarvice clung. Hesealed up his letter in the end, and stood for a moment or two with thedarkness deepening about him. Then he rang for his clerk and bade himpost it, but the voice he used was one which the clerk did not know, sothat he pushed his head forward and peered through the shadows to makesure that it was his master who spoke.

Two days afterward Garratt Skinner paid a long visit to Mr. Jarvice, andthat some agreement was reached between the two men shortly becameevident. For Walter Hine received a letter from Captain Barstow whichgreatly relieved him.

"Garratt Skinner has written to me," wrote the 'red-hot' Captain, "thathe has discovered that the gardener, whom he engaged for a particularjob, is notorious as a poacher and a first-class shot. Under thesecircumstances, my dear old fellow, the red-hot one cannot pouch yourpennies. As between gentlemen, the bet must be considered o-p-h."

CHAPTER XVII

SYLVIA TELLS MORE THAN SHE KNOWS

Hilary Chayne stayed away from Dorsetshire for ten complete days; andthough the hours crept by, dilatory as idlers at a street corner, heobtained some poor compensation by reflecting upon his fine diplomacy. Inless than a week he would surely be missed; by the time that ten days hadpassed the sensation might have become simply poignant. So for ten dayshe wandered about the Downs of Sussex with an aching heart, saying thewhile, "It serves her right." On the morning of the eleventh he receiveda letter from the War Office, bidding him call on the followingafternoon.

"That will just do," he said. "I will go down to Weymouth to-day, and Iwill return to London to-morrow." And with an unusual lightness ofspirit, which he ascribed purely to his satisfaction that he need punishSylvia no longer, he started off upon his long journey. He reached thehouse of the Running Water by six o'clock in the evening; and at theoutset it seemed that his diplomacy had been sagacious.

He was shown into the library, and opposite to him by the windowSylvia stood alone. She turned to him a white terror-haunted face,gazed at him for a second like one dazed, and then with a low cry ofwelcome came quickly toward him. Chayne caught her outstretched handsand all his joy at her welcome lay dead at the sight of her distress."Sylvia!" he exclaimed in distress. He was hurt by it as he had neverthought to be hurt.

"I am afraid!" she said, in a trembling whisper. He drew her toward himand she yielded. She stood close to him and very still, touching him,leaning to him like a frightened child. "Oh, I am afraid," she repeated;and her voice appealed piteously for sympathy and a little kindness.

In Chayne's mind there was suddenly painted a picture of the ice-slope onthe Aiguille d'Argentiere. A girl had moved from step to step, acrossthat slope, looking down its steep glittering incline without a tremor.It was the same girl who now leaned to him and with shaking lips and eyestortured with fear cried, "I am afraid." By his recollection of that dayupon the heights Chayne measured the greatness of her present trouble.

"Why, Sylvia? Why are you afraid?"

For answer she looked toward the open window. Chayne followed her glanceand this was what he saw: The level stretch of emerald lawn, the streamrunning through it and catching in its brown water the red light of theevening sun, the great beech trees casting their broad shadows, the highgarden walls with the dusky red of their bricks glowing amongst fruittrees, and within that enclosure pacing up and down, in and out among theshadows of the trees, Garratt Skinner and Walter Hine. Yet that sight shemust needs have seen before. Why should it terrify her beyond reason now?

"Do you see?" Sylvia said in a low troubled voice. For once distress hadmastered her and she spoke without her usual reticence. "There can be nofriendship between those two. No real friendship! You have but to seethem side by side to be sure of it. It is pretence."

Yet that too she must have known before. Why then should the pretence nowso greatly trouble her? Chayne watched the two men pacing in the garden.Certainly he had never seen them in so intimate a comradeship. GarrattSkinner had passed his arm through Walter Hine's and held him so, plyinghim with stories, bending down his keen furrowed aquiline face toward himas though he had no thought in the world but to make him his friend andbind him with affection; and Walter Hine looked up and listened andlaughed, a vain, weak wisp of a creature, flattered to the skies anddefenceless as a rabbit.

"Why the pretence?" said Sylvia. "Why the linked arms? The pretence hasgrown during these last days. What new thing is intended?" Her eyes wereon the garden, and as she looked it seemed that her terror grew. "Myfather went away a week ago. Since he has returned the pretence hasincreased. I am afraid! I am afraid!"

Garratt Skinner turned in his walk and led Walter Hine back toward thehouse. Sylvia shrank from his approach as from something devilish. Whenhe turned again, she drew her breath like one escaped from sudden peril.

"Sylvia! Of what are you afraid?"

"I don't know!" she cried. "That's just the trouble. I don't know!" Sheclenched her hands together at her breast. Chayne caught them in his andwas aware that in one shut palm she held something which she concealed.Her clasp tightened upon it as his hands touched hers. Sylvia had morereason for her fears than she had disclosed. Barstow came no more. Therewere no more cards, no more bets; and this change taken together withGarratt Skinner's increased friendship added to her apprehensions. Shedreaded some new plot more sinister, more terrible than that one of whichshe was aware.

"If only I knew," she cried. "Oh, if only I knew!"

Archie Parminter had paid one visit to the house, had stayed for onenight; and he and Garratt Skinner and Walter Hine had sat up tillmorning, talking together in the library. Sylvia waking up from a fitfulsleep, had heard their voices again and again through the dark hours; andwhen the dawn was gray, she had heard them coming up to bed as on thefirst night of her return; and as on that night there was one whostumbled heavily. It was since that night that terror had distracted her.

"I have no longer any power," she said. "Something has happened todestroy my power. I have no longer any influence. Something was done uponthat night," and she shivered as though she guessed; and she looked ather clenched hand as though the clue lay hidden in its palm. There layher great trouble. She had lost her influence over Walter Hine. She hadknowledge of the under side of life--yes, but her father had a greaterknowledge still. He had used his greater knowledge. Craftily and with amost ingenious subtlety he had destroyed her power, he had blunted herweapons. Hine was attracted by Sylvia, fascinated by her charm, herlooks, and the gentle simplicity of her manner. Very well. On the otherside Garratt Skinner had held out a lure of greater attractions, greaterfascination; and Sylvia was powerless.

"He has changed," Sylvia went on, with her eyes fixed on Walter Hine."Oh, not merely toward me. He has changed physically. Can you understand?He has grown nervous, restless, excitable, a thing of twitching limbs.Oh, and that's not all. I will tell you. This morning it seemed to methat the color of his eyes had changed."

Chayne stared at her. "Sylvia!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, I have not lost my senses," she answered, and she resumed: "I onlynoticed that there was an alteration at first. I did not see in what thealteration lay. Then I saw. His eyes used to be light in color. Thismorning they were dark. I looked carefully to make sure, and so Iunderstood. The pupils of his eyes were so dilated that they covered thewhole eyeball. Can you think why?" and even as she asked, she looked atthat clenched hand of hers as though the answer to that question as welllay hidden there. "I am afraid," she said once more; and upon that Chaynecommitted the worst of the many indiscretions which had signalized hiscourtship.

"You are afraid? Sylvia! Then let me take you away!"

At once Sylvia drew back. Had Chayne not spoken, she would have told himall that there was to tell. She was in the mood at this unguarded moment.She would have told him that during these last days Walter Hine had takento drink once more. She would have opened that clenched fist and showedthe thing it hid, even though the thing condemned her father beyond allhope of exculpation. But Chayne had checked her as surely as though hehad laid the palm of his hand upon her lips. He would talk of love andflight, and of neither had she any wish to hear. She craved with a greatyearning for sympathy and a little kindness. But Chayne was not contentto offer what she needed. He would add more, and what he added marred thewhole gift for Sylvia. She shook her head, and looking at him with a sadand gentle smile, said:

"Love is for the happy people."

"That is a hard saying, Sylvia," Chayne returned, "and not a true one."

"True to me," said Sylvia, with a deep conviction, and as he advanced toher she raised her hand to keep him off. "No, no," she cried, and had helistened, he might have heard a hint of exasperation in her voice. But hewould not be warned.

"You can't go on, living here, without sympathy, without love, withouteven kindness. Already it is evident. You are ill, and tired. And youthink to go on all your life or all your father's life. Sylvia, let metake you away!"

And each unwise word set him further and further from his aim. It seemedto her that there was no help anywhere. Chayne in front of her seemed toher almost as much her enemy as her father, who paced the lawn behind herarm in arm with Walter Hine. She clasped her hands together with a quicksharp movement.

"I will not let you take me away," she cried. "For I do not love you";and her voice had lost its gentleness and grown cold and hard. Chaynebegan again, but whether it was with a renewal of his plea, she did nothear. For she broke in upon him quickly:

"Please, let me finish. I am, as you said, a little over-wrought! Justhear me out and leave me to bear my troubles by myself. You will make iteasier for me"; she saw that the words hurt her lover. But she did notmodify them. She was in the mood to hurt. She had been betrayed by herneed of sympathy into speaking words which she would gladly haverecalled; she had been caught off her guard and almost unawares; and sheresented it. Chayne had told her that she looked ill and tired; and sheresented that too. No wonder she looked tired when she had her fatherwith his secret treacheries on one side and an importunate lover uponthe other! She thought for a moment or two how best to put what she hadstill to stay:

"I have probably said to you," she resumed, "more than was right orfair--I mean fair to my father. I have no doubt exaggerated things. Iwant you to forget what I have said. For it led you into a mistake."

Chayne looked at her in perplexity.

"A mistake?"

"Yes," she answered. She was standing in front of him with her foreheadwrinkled and a somber, angry look in her eyes. "A mistake which I mustcorrect. You said that I was living here without kindness. It is nottrue. My father is kind!" And as Chayne raised his eyes in a muteprotest, she insisted on the word. "Yes, kind and thoughtful--thoughtfulfor others besides myself." A kind of obstinacy forced her on to enlargeupon the topic. "I can give you an instance which will surprise you."

"There is no need," Chayne said, gently, but Sylvia was implacable.

"But there is need," she returned. "I beg you to hear me. When my fatherand I were at Weymouth we drove one afternoon across the neck of theChesil beach to Portland."

Chayne looked at Sylvia quickly.

"Yes?" he said, and there was an indefinable change in his voice. He hadconsented to listen, because she wished it. Now he listened with a keenattention. For a strange thought had crept into his mind.

"We drove up the hill toward the plateau at the top of the island, but aswe passed through the village--Fortune's Well I think they call it--myfather stopped the carriage at a tobacconist's, and went into the shop.He came out again with some plugs of tobacco--a good many--and got intothe carriage. You won't guess why he bought them. I didn't."

"Well?" said Chayne, and now he spoke with suspense. Suspense, too, wasvisible in his quiet attitude. There was a mystery which for Sylvia'ssake he wished to unravel. Why did Gabriel Strood now call himself